Mine Enemy?
by NostalgieMalaak
Summary: Third in the 'Peace' arc. Trowa comes to realize that war isn't as simple as he thought.


Title: Mine Enemy?

Author: Nostalgiemalaak

Rating/Warnings: R for violent situations

Characters: Trowa, Quatre

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The ringing in his ears had not abated, but he had little time to think about it. The world moved in a stop-start jerky motion in which sound and vision didn't seem to quite match up. Even the air around him seemed off; full of jagged glass-like edges. There wasn't time though. He had to get moving

Trowa let out a growl that seemed to reach his ears a minute after feeling it pass his lips. He was in a bad situation, but it wasn't like he couldn't handle it. He had survived worse than this and would continue to survive. One little grenade blast wasn't enough to take out a Gundam Pilot.

As he stared at the somber streets still filled with early morning fog the world slowly righted itself and resumed its normal pace. He briefly let his hand come up to smack forcefully at the side of his head, as though clearing water from his ear, but it didn't help. The damn ringing wouldn't stop. With a frustrated sigh Trowa fluidly stood from his crouched position and brought his now slightly battered rifle up to bear. His back ached and his head swam dizzily for a moment but he pushed the pain back into the far corner of his mind and began to assess his situation. He was vastly outnumbered, alone, in enemy territory, and only equipped with his M4 service rifle. No problem.

Breathing lightly, Trowa listened for approaching enemy troops and found that he was slightly disappointed when he heard none. Taking out a few more Oz soldiers would have made the discomfort of his present situation a little more bearable. Reason however calmly and smoothly interjected to this line of thought. Better to retreat now and attack when they least expected. No sense in getting himself killed when he could accomplish the same mission at a later date.

Trowa let his eyes slip closed for a mere second as his brought to mind a mental soundtrack. He decided this moment needed something hard and heavy. A tiny smile flitted across his face as the chosen heavy metal song began running through his mind.

The graceful young man exploded away from the wall he had been resting on and sprinted across the torn up road. The music in his mind pulsed in time with the gunfire that rained after him. He agilely dodged around gutted cars and chunks of concrete and with one last long-legged jump leapt to the top of a small brick wall and then over. Exhilaration for the chase and the thrill of narrow escape beat at his temples and upped the music up to a fever pitch. Trowa almost wished that someone had followed. He could almost see it. His rifle flying up in a smooth arc to rest against his shoulder, the feel of his finger squeezing the trigger, the short popping sound, and then the enemy going down. One more down.

Trowa ran until the city was no longer visible behind the thick stand of woods that separated it from the main thoroughfare. The music died away in his mind and he let his strides even out to a comfortable walk. His hand automatically went to his shirt pocket but dropped lazily back to his side with the remembrance that he had smoked his last cigarette the night before. With his gun slung over his shoulder he let his hands slip into his front pockets. He was just a young man going for a walk through the woods on a beautiful summer morning. The rifle lightly slapping against his back almost made him smile again. That's right. Just another teenager out for a stroll. Why don't you come out and see what this teenager can do.

He was just about to pull up another song, this one more suited for marching than the last when he heard it. The noise stopped him short and for a moment he simply stood and waited, his hands still jammed in his pockets, every nerve ending in his body tingling with anticipation. But it wasn't the sound of a soon-to-be-dead enemy. It was much more horrible than that.

Trowa turned his head to the left slightly and was able to catch a glimpse of a small house through the trees. Curiosity that was more morbid than innocent propelled him towards the dwelling. The noise got louder as he approached and Trowa almost wished he had a real soundtrack loud enough to drown it out. It was grating at his nerves. A feeling he wasn't accustomed to. He rarely let anything get to him anymore.

Trowa stopped before the house and let the agonized wails wash over him in a knife-edged wave. His right hand moved from his pocket to rest on the splintery wooden gate that was hanging slightly off its hinges. He flipped the latch on the inside of the gate several times, liking the sound it made when it clicked into place.

When the latch at last slipped its grip Trowa gave the gate a gentle push and watched it wobble inward, idly wondering if it would come completely out of its hinges. It didn't and he took it as a sign to continue forward towards the house.

The wails of grief grew louder until even the ringing in his ears was wiped out. He wasn't quite sure why he was approaching the door to the house, putting his hand on the knob, jiggling it a little to make it turn. When the door slid open though, Trowa didn't try to catch it to close it again. He couldn't move his arms. It was like his shoulders and elbows had been glued in place. His fingers felt like they had gone to sleep.

The living room in the small dwelling was furnished with delicate looking antique furniture. Lacy curtains were pulled shut across windows that Trowa instinctively knew would make that horrible screeching noise as they were forced upward to let in the breeze. On the sagging wooden floor was a flower print carpet and on the carpet was the dead soldier.

He wore an Oz uniform and his black cap had tumbled off his dead and was lying on the carpet looking abandoned. The soldier's brown hair was spilled across his forehead in sweat-matted curls. Trowa couldn't stop looking at the way the dark hair contrasted with the soldier's pale skin. He wanted to brush the damp hair away from the pale face so he could see his eyes better. See what the dead soldier's eyes had looked like when he died.

The wailing had stuttered and subsided into little muffled sobs. The woman kneeling on the carpet beside the body was slowly rocking back and forth, her knuckles pressed tightly against her teeth. A memory came to Trowa then of a man he had once known who could fit his whole fist in his mouth. Trowa's mind skipped to the image of the woman kneeling above the soldier, seeing her in his mind forcing her fist in her mouth and then down and down. As if trying to swallow herself whole in her grief like a snake eating its tail.

Trowa shook himself violently. He took a step backward, and then two, and then three more. A sharp bang rang out from behind him and his panic sent him twisting and reeling away from the sound to land in an awkward jumble on the ground. When his heart slowed its frantic beating Trowa saw that it was just the gate that had finally outlived its usefulness and fallen off its hinges. A barking laugh erupted from his mouth and he slapped a hand across his face to muffle the sound.

He pushed himself up sharply with numb arms and ran.

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The five-man tent was still up in the clearing by the time Trowa reached camp but he was pretty sure that only Quatre didn't have a mission and would still be there.

Sure enough he found the other boy in the tent, his back propped up against his hikers' backpack. He was reading a book of poetry but looked up at Trowa as he came in.

"What's wrong?"

"It's…it's nothing. I didn't complete the mission. Bad intel."

"Oh…ok." Quatre still looked concerned but didn't press the matter.

Trowa laid back on his own sleeping bag, his arm behind his head.

"Quatre?"

"Yes?"

"Do you ever think about the people you kill?" Trowa asked quietly.

"Yes. All the time. Do you?"

"I never used to."

"Why not?" Quatre turned to him, putting his thumb in the book to keep his place.

"Because they were the enemy. It didn't matter."

"_Were_ the enemy?"

Trowa thought about the dead soldier in the house. His mother? Grandmother? Crying over him. No, not crying. _Wailing_. He saw the image of her eating her own arm, swallowing it whole, and closed his eyes against it. He thought of the times he had shut himself off from the battlefield, listened to his inner soundtrack, and killed without a single thought of remorse. He remembered shooting the soldier with the sweat-curled hair. He remembered thinking that the song he had been thinking of when killed him had been a good one, perfect for getting his blood pumping.

"Now I'm not so sure anymore," he whispered.

Trowa curled away from the concern in Quatre's eyes and listened to the shrill ringing in his ears.

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End file.
